Stained Hands
by broadwaybaby529
Summary: "And you're jealous of my bike," he began, the twitch of his lips, the sinful look in his devilish eyes, the lazy confident look of a rebel aristocrat, all proving a dangerous combination when he said, "Because you'd love to have me riding you all night long." (T for now, rating will go up.)
1. Chapter 1

**Stained Hands**

Disclaimer - All the property of HRH J.K. Rowling.

**Rating/Warnings** - M, for the inevitable smut, swearing, run on sentences and unforgivable tense/POV switching (Which is generally so egregious I felt it only fair to warn about). I worked on this in chunks so it's probably pretty stilted, but bear with me. Next chapter will be up soon, hopefully!

**Pairing **- Sirius/Hermione

**A/N** - Part of the Motorcycle Series in tandem with Impulse Point and hopefully some others. I'm sorry I've been so MIA lately - I'm in my senior year of college and the workload is bonkers. But I've got a queue of new stories ideas, which I'll do my best to keep up on. If that's not good enough I've got a slew of social media on which we can be friends (Twitter: RubyRaeScalera, Pinterest: Ruby Scalera, Instagram: RubyRaeMay)

For some **shameless self-promotion**, I've begun writing short stories through Amazon. They're short and such (there's only one up right now) - check it out if you want -

Holland-Rae/e/B00I2U24U4/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

**Stained Hands**

**Chapter 1 **

Hermione rubbed at her eyes, feeling the grease of her fingers and make-up and sweat of the first really warm spring afternoon wipe across her skin. She had been staring at the same page of Runes for what felt like an eternity, the once impeccably detailed images swarming before her in what was now blurry and indecipherable fatigue. She glanced to the clock, nearly time for a break, she told herself, one more paragraph and then she could go eat, go shower, go look at the sun just to see if there really was a world outside of her study.

And then she heard it. Slow at first, somewhat muffled by its sleepiness, but louder with each revving of the engine. In complete frustration she knocked her head on the table, realizing, only too late, that her forehead had fallen directly into a small puddle of ink that had not yet dried, smearing over her damp skin.

Hermione let out a sigh and glanced towards the window, wondering how much good it would do to go out and tell him to tinker somewhere else. His motorcycle had been the grinding cause of her frustration since she had first permanently moved into Grimmauld Place the previous year, loud, dirty and overall flashy in all the ways Sirius was that drove her crazy.

The bike revved another moment, the sound of metal on metal, clinking of spanners and lug nuts and oil cans echoing through the garden and into her study; then she heard one final shout from the engine before the bike shot off, zooming right past her window before heading for open skies. The sound grinded hard on her temples and it felt like her brain was throbbing. She needed a break.

By the time Hermione actually got downstairs it was nearly three hours later. The sun, beginning to set over the horizon, cast a light yellow shine over everything and she squinted in the natural glow. She had to wonder how, yet again, she had managed to become so caught up in her work that the whole day had passed her by. It had always been a habit of hers, to work until her fingers ached and her eyes strained at the images on the parchment.

But lately it had been bothering her just a little bit more, that she couldn't seem to let go of a quill and ancient text long enough to catch Ron and Harry for coffee, or spend an afternoon with Ginny at the shops. More than the activities, since she was wholeheartedly a tea drinker and hardly one for fashion, Hermione missed her friends. Her life since the War had become settled and calm, and for a while that quietness had been coveted. But in the five years that had passed, Hermione realized, she had begun to miss the wildness of camping and escape and never being sure where one would wake up or what they would encounter that day.

Of course, she would never wish for the trials of war, with losses that weighed in painful reminder on the most sensitive parts of her soul, but the adventure - the adventure. There was only so much one could learn from a book.

With her mind off in the cobwebbed fairytales of nostalgia Hermione didn't realize that the sun had set and dusk had settled until a roaring growl broke her concentration. She recognized it, how could she not? It was the sound that had been riding on her frayed and overly exhausted nerves since she'd first encountered it. It was a sound that drove her only slightly less mad than its owner did. It was the revving and angry engine sound of Sirius Black returning home from a day off doing only Merlin knew what while the rest of them actually worked for a living.

"You're home early," Hermione said curtly from the wooden swing. She hadn't meant to be so short with him, but her recent realizations of longing had been confusing and difficult to accept, and little more pissed her off than the sound of Sirius' motorbike. "I was sure you'd be off in Muggle London, chatting up some bird half your age and disappearing for the night."

"I was just home to change," Sirius admitted, climbing off the back of the gleaming bike, whose bright, shiny chrome glistened in the strands of moonlight. "But now it seems like I might actually have company at home." He paused and raised his eyebrow in the way only an aristocrat could. "Has the great and elusive Hermione Granger come to the world of the living at last?"

She pursed her lips at him. It hadn't been that long since she'd seen her flatmates, and it wasn't entirely her fault either. Harry and Ron were off in northern Scotland to finish up an Auror mission, and Ginny had seasonal training for the Harpies, which often took them far away from London. In fact, it had been just Hermione and Sirius living at Grimmauld Place for the better part of two weeks.

"I've been around," she said, the same sharp tone stinging her tongue, even though she almost wished it didn't. "I've just been busy with this text for the Ministry."

Sirius raised an eyebrow at her, and in the contouring light from the blanket of night sky Hermione had to admit that he looked really good for his age. The leather riding pants he wore were taut around what could only be tight muscular thighs, and the white t-shirt, half hidden under his leather jacket, was pulled across his chest just tight enough. For a moment Hermione thought about pulling that jacket off and pushing Sirius into the grass at their feet, finding the desperate need for human connection in the slick sweaty ride of skin on skin. She bit her tongue - where had that thought come from?

Sirius hadn't seemed to realize her distress, thankfully, and replied, "I haven't seen you in four days - seen you." He paused. "You spend all of your time locked up in that room and never come out. It's getting ridiculous how much you work, Hermione."

"My work is my business," she said briskly. "At least I'm quiet about it - and don't go waking up the whole neighborhood with my work." Sirius's eyebrows seemed to be permanently arched.

"You've got a problem with the bike?" He asked, and walked over to it, revving the engine with a low and rumbling growl. "That's predictable." Hermione's head shot up.

"Excuse me," she began, but he cut her off.

"You're locked in your room all day," Sirius began, "You never see your friends, you disapprove of anything fun and you're entirely obsessed with my bike."

"I am not obsessed with your bike!" She began indignantly, "And I do not disapprove of fun. I'm busy. I'm a hard worker. There is nothing wrong with that." She hated that she could feel herself getting hysterical, that maybe, just maybe, a sliver of what Sirius had said might have been true.

"Whatever you say, Wonder Girl," Sirius replied, rolling the term around his mouth in smooth and condescending sarcasm, and then disappearing with his bike without another word.

Hermione woke while it was still dark. Outside her window was the alarming sound of an exhaust, chugging away at the fresh air around it and spitting out the smell of leaking gasoline and motor oil. She opened her eyes groggily. It was Saturday morning and she had intended to sleep past seven, but it seemed like that wasn't going to be an option.

The sound got louder, coupled with the revving of an angrier than usual engine, and the rolling of gears clinking into one another. For fuck's sake, she thought to herself.

Finally, when the sound didn't stop and she could no longer ignore the steady hum of the engine, she pulled herself out of bed and threw up the window to the fresh chill of early spring.

"What in all holy hell are you doing?" She called down to the driveway. It was no surprise to see Sirius standing there, in those damned leather pants, crouched over the back wheel of the bike.

"I'm going for a ride," he replied, his tone calm and unnervingly even. "Just a quick repair and then I'm off. I'd offer you to come, but obviously you don't want to." She didn't bother to reply, simply slammed the window to the loud clunk of glass and wood, and tried to muffle the sound of the engine with the pillow - but even after he'd flown away she couldn't fall back asleep.

It happened again the following day. With the sun just peeking out from behind the horizon, Hermione woke to the obnoxious sounds of an engine revving, and the smug, smiling face of Sirius, who told her she wasn't invited in so many words, and then sped off.

And then Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons, as she sat at her desk, desperate for the answers behind texts she once understood, she heard the sounds of the stupid engine, the revving, the growling, the choking of old metal, and then the tell tale of Sirius speeding off to the sky.

Finally, on Saturday morning, a week after Sirius had first started revving his engine outside of Hermione's window, she cracked.

"What are you doing?" She asked him, when he walked into the kitchen. Even in her infuriated state Hermione had to admit he looked good. Those damned leather pants that hugged his defined, muscular thighs were incredibly distracting. She didn't have a good look at his behind, but she was sure it was just as delicious.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about, kitten," he replied with a smirk, his eyes crinkling with mirth at her discomfort.

"You're purposefully distracting me," she said, feeling her temper rise. "You're trying to goad me."

"Into what, luv?" Sirius asked. For a split second she couldn't answer. Hermione Granger, always one with an answer, with a come back, with some sort of theory or document or book to back up her argument, was at a loss for words.

Sirius grabbed the opportunity with both hands and a smug smile.

"Face it, kitten," he began, leaning into the bike with cocked hips and perked eyebrows. "You're jealous of me and my bike."

"What in god's name are you on about?" she asked, feeling the panic ebb slightly once she had found her words.

"You're jealous of me," Sirius began, "Because I have adventures. I jump at opportunity. I walk the fine line." He paused, so much for effect that Hermione almost wondered if cameramen were going to pop out of the bushes. But no, it was just Sirius. "And you're jealous of my bike," he began, the twitch of his lips, the sinful look in his devilish eyes, the lazy confident look of a rebel aristocrat, all proving a dangerous combination when he said, "Because you'd love to have me riding you all night long."

Her first instinct was to slap him. Her second was to kiss him. Her third was to hex his bollocks from London to Kingdom Come.

Instead she settled on turning for the house and walking inside without another word.

Hermione tossed and turned, fidgeting all that night. Her sweat soaked sheets were wrapped around her in tangled fistfuls by the time the sun rose the next more. Her hair was matted to the back of her damp neck, and she hadn't slept a wink.

Something was unusual. Well, many things were unusual, to be fair.

She hadn't woken up, or rather, been alerted of dawn, to the sound of Sirius' motorcycle. It was the first time in a week where the morning air had been free of exhaust fumes and engine rumblings.

But she had spent the night with her mind whirling around what Sirius had said, before the disgraceful proposition, and found she could not longer ignore her own wanderlust. The desire to feel fresh air and see new cities, and meet new people was overwhelming and distracting. It was clouding her vision.

Hermione was desperate. She slipped into a pair of rarely worn jeans, it had been at least a week since she'd worn anything other than her lounge pants, and slid open her closet door, half expecting moths to fly from its depths. In the deepest shadowed corner of the closest, just where it had been hung months before when Hermione had fallen in love with it and bought it on impulse, hung the worn form fitting leather jacket.

It was a beautiful jacket. She'd seen the well loved sleeves poking out of the rack at the basement thrift store when her and Ginny had visited muggle London for the day, and she'd bought it without a second thought as to where she would possibly have occasion to wear it.

But today she did, sliding it over the plain white t-shirt she wore, and feeling the snug fit of the cool leather against her skin. It creased with her elbows as she pulled on a pair of lace up combat boots she had gotten as a Christmas present and never worn, and fell comfortably around her as she tied her mane of thick hair into a long braid.

Predictable, she thought, looking into the mirror. She laughed.

What wasn't predictable, however, was what she found when she got to the kitchen a few minutes later. Out on the table was a spread of pancakes and biscuits and jams and fruits and pastries. It was a feast that could only call to memory the breakfasts of the Hogwarts Great Hall.

"I shouldn't have said those things to you, 'Mione," Hermione heard Sirius, with his back turned to her, busily working away at the stove top. "It was inappropriate and crude," he turned to face her, wiping his hands on his apron, but stopped short of speaking when he saw her.

"Whoa," was all he could manage, and Hermione had to feel a slight victory for being able to surprise. "Wasn't expecting that," he mumbled.

"Take me on an adventure," she whispered to him. "Get me out of here." The look in Sirius' eyes could only be called delight, as he pulled the apron knots undone.

"I thought you'd never ask," he said.

A/N: Hope ya'll enjoyed! Drop a note or check out some of my other stuff. I love to talk to people! Thanks for reading – Ruby


	2. Chapter 2

Stained Hands

Part II

**Rating**: T, will be M soon

**Pairing**: Will be Hermione/Sirius

**Warnings**: Emotions

**Disclaimer**: La, La, La, I would not be worrying about my impending college graduation were I the owner of the Harry Potter saga.

**Author's Note**: As standard, apologies for the tardiness, and the fact that I didn't finish in this chapter. I'm graduating in May, and things are wild right now. Also - shameless self-promotion I have stories up on Amazon right now, one of which is the first of three books in the Motorcycle Series. Check out me out by Holland Rae _or The Triumph of Love,_ or share! As always, thanks for reading!

Stained Hands

Part II

_Was she insane_, the thought had occurred to Hermione, as she climbed onto the back of Sirius' bike. It bounced through her mind, as she wrapped her arms around his muscular chest, feeling the give of worn leather, trying not to feel the strong, built body under her arms. She must have been insane.

But then Sirius started the engine, and the whole bike roared to life, vibrating in a sweet rhythm beneath her. For the first time, in as many times as she had heard the growl of that blast motorcycle, it made sense. It was a low and husky sound, demanding something from its riders that kindled a feeling within her, a feeling Hermione hadn't had in a long time.

And then they were floating.

Hermione had never been very steady on a broom. For all her aptitude with quill and question, the basic skills of balance and dexterity had somehow remained just past her grip. But now, with her arms clenched around Sirius' body, and the strong, cool air playing with her skin, tugging loose curls free from her braid, she could understand why the boys had always called Quidditch pure freedom.

"Where to?" Sirius asked her, revving the engine just once more for good measure - a movement that sent a tingle of inexplicable sensation right through her. They were high up in the air now, something she hadn't realized until she looked down, seeing the disappearing houses below her feet, no larger than toys - flats for the dolls she'd played with as a child.

"Anywhere," she said, barely aware of the words spilling from her mouth. The pure awe of flying was as wild and new as she'd always believed it to be, growing up in a muggle world. She was flying. The thought made her laugh out loud. "Everywhere," she said.

Everywhere turned out to be Turkey, right in the middle of their annual hot air balloon festival. She saws the balloons far off in the distance, against the orange horizon, setting to blaze with rising sunlight.

"It's magnificent," she murmured. Sirius grinned.

"Want to get closer?" He asked, and without waiting for an answer he sped the bike up, shooting them straight into a cloud of massive, swirling hot air balloons.

The first thing that struck her was just how huge the balloons were. Logically Hermione knew that the physics of the matter requires an excess of fabric, but the theoretical knowledge paled in comparison to the reality of flying beside them. They floated by on every side, huge and slow, but graceful, like multi-colored whales caressing waves of sky that spanned on across the flat plains forever.

She never wanted to leave. The world had dealt her many blows, many losses. She'd said goodbye to her childhood in desperate search of good, and wouldn't have changed it, despite the heartache and the headache. But even with so many years of adventures, even with the knowledge of magic thrust upon her, and then taken with pride, even with the everyday spells she still marveled at, nothing could compare to this.

In every basket she saw the faces of strangers, smiling, happy, inspired strangers. A little boy pointed at a star patterned balloon as it strode for the sun. In a crisscrossed balloon of honey and auburn - almost Gryffindor colors, she thought with a smile, a couple embraced, kissing with a passion that went deeper than their bodies. Beside them, a pilot politely turned his head, waving to another pilot in a neighboring balloon.

What a scene, what a marvelous drama, all coming together before her eyes. Hermione was a rational woman, too rational if you asked her friends. She spent long hours staring at ancient texts; she spoke prudently at university lectures, and had contributed her findings to a number of academic essays and scholarly journals.

In the many years since she had first received her Hogwarts letter she had taken pains to work through each bout of magic, to understand, down to the most basic level, how something so incredible could happen right before her eyes.

And yet, this scene around her, this community of strangers paying little mind to the sparking, growling motorcycles weaving between them, had managed to reduce her back to the little girl, sitting on her father's knee and listening to fairy tales, wishing that magic existed.

To her surprised, Hermione realized she was crying. It had the effect of kaleidoscoping the scene before her, blending sky and sun, stars and plaids. Sirius seemed to sense her feeling of overwhelming, and turned the bike for the mountain opposite they'd come - saying nothing about the streaks she was sure he saw on her face in his mirrors.

A man with long black hair and an all white robe poured her tea and then bowed, walking back into the small wooden building and leaving them alone in the outdoor patio, sitting on cool down pillows and sipping local brews.

"You look happy," Sirius said, picking up a small dessert and eyeing it with mild curiosity. Hermione sipped her tea, sensing raspberry and ginger root and something earthy she couldn't quite place. How to explain, how to put into words that she felt as though her world had been opened up beyond closing again. She inhaled, reveling the deep intake of herb and earth.

"I missed the adventure," she admitted. Though they were simple, saying the words out loud lifted a force from her shoulders and soul, one she hadn't even realized she was carrying. "I don't miss the war," she explained quickly. That was part of it; to miss the adventure was to miss the war, the thick darkness that had brought such sorrow to all of them. She had been shrouded in the guilt of that wanderlust for so long. "But the idea of a new place, a new people." Hermione shook her head. "I haven't had the wind on my face in a long time."

Sirius took her hand, and while the gesture surprised her she didn't move away. He had calloused hands, big and capable, the hands of a workman. That wasn't how she saw him, Hermione knew. She'd always thought Sirius so entitled, even with the losses they'd all suffered, he'd acted the playboy, he'd embraced the role of aristocrat with all the ease of a young king. Perhaps she'd erred in her harsh judgment.

"You feel guilty?" He asked her, feathering the lightest strokes across her skin, which sent strange, pulsing sensations through her body. "Adventure is not a synonym for war, Hermione," he said.

"To me it is," she replied, before she could stop herself. How had she let that get through? How could she explain that a need for fresh air brought the nights of camping in tents, hidden off in the forest, all pummeling back to her. Fresh air meant running, it meant fear, it meant uncertainly.

Fresh air also meant freedom.

Sirius shook his head. "How long are you going to hide from the world?" He asked her. "Every whisper is a reminder, every shadow is a memory. The simplest design on a dress in a marketplace brings back the nights you couldn't sleep, the days filled with horror, sadness, desperation." He looked her in the eyes, and she could see that he'd felt every one of those moments, for so much longer than she had. They'd all endured. They'd all survived.

"You cannot live your life with your nose on a piece of parchment and your eyes desperate for something other than ancient ruins," Sirius said to her. "That is not a life worth living, 'Mione. Hiding from your past is not life."

Oh, how desperately she had needed someone to say those words to her, how completely they hit home to her soul. Live a life worth winning war, that's what it all meant.

But just because she heard the words, just because she understood them down to the depths of her very soul, didn't mean she could live their meaning out. She had been part, an integral part, of the War, and because of her hundreds of lives had been lost in fighting, because of her families still mourned, families she loved still mourned. True, had she not fought the war might still be raging around them, had she sat on the sidelines people still would have died, the ending might not have come in their favor. She wasn't immodest, but she knew her value in the fighting.

"I'm not hiding," she said, thinking of her parents, who would have no spark of recognition if they saw her now, and not because of the scar slipped around her left eyebrow, not because the war had aged her so. They'd all be forced to make sacrifices, of that she'd be all too aware. But even now, even so many years later, the idea of being happy was a hard one to fathom.

"I love my study and I love my position with the Ministry," neither of them lies, though perhaps omissions, leaving out the grander idea that she also loved the freedom of seeing the world, the freedom she'd felt that afternoon. But with her guilt, she could not reconcile.

"I think it's time you take me home," she told him, standing and straightening her jacket before Sirius had a chance to protest. "I appreciate the reprieve, but running away on a whim is not my life anymore."

Sirius boarded the bike without asking her any more questions, for which she was grateful. Had he looked at her face in the darkening sky he would have seen a river of tears flowing from her eyes.


End file.
